


100 Steps

by Squez



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF! Sheriff Stilinski, BAMF! Stiles Stilinski, Disturbia!AU, Gen, M/M, Mechanic Derek Hale, Movie Spoilers, New neighbor Derek Hale, Operation Positivity, Panic Attacks, Protective Derek, Stiles Saves The Day, Stiles uses the Baseball Bat, Stilinski Family Feels, house arrest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squez/pseuds/Squez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dad stopped chatting about work, asking instead: “Don’t you want to talk about anything?” and peered over at him. When Stiles looks up from his plate, he seems... uncomfortable? Perturbed? Surprised? Stiles doesn’t know anymore. </p><p>He remembers standing in the courtroom, feeling his dad look away in disappointment as he, himself, stared in the pitying eyes of the judge.</p><p>The bracelet around his ankle doesn’t feel itchy anymore. It just feels so heavy when his dad looks at him like that. </p><p>“I got nothing.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I watched "Disturbia" this weekend, and the idea literally came out of nowhere. And when Kale grabbed the baseball bat, I was just done. Also, I needed something to take my mind off of school stress and some very harsh anti-Sterek people. It's working so far! <3

His Mom loves to cook. 

Naturally, Stiles loves it, too.  

There’s this new farmer’s market a little ways out from Beacon Hills, just opening tomorrow morning. It’s an hour or two’s drive from their home, and the only reason Mom found out about it is because Greenberg’s Mom has gushed about how her sister’s husband is starting up a fresh-food-only store, which is supposedly his. Greenberg’s mom only gushes or dotes on things that are actually _that_ good or _will be_ that good ― note: not a peep about her son, and that’s just.. okay, _ouch_. ― so even Stiles is eying his Mom and a bit of his Dad from across the dinner table.  

His Dad sighs with a smile on his face, noticing all the fidgeting and squirming she and Stiles are doing -- and then leaning over and kissing the top of his mom’s soft forehead with her soccer-Mom straight fringe. Stiles grins goofily with a little bit of scrunching of his face. _Yuck_ written on it when his Mom pushes her head up quickly and steals a kiss from his Dad’s lips. They’re cute, but they’re his parents, so of course he's a bit grossed out. 

“I’ll leave you some extra money before the shift in the morning.” His Dad is already starting on his vegetables that his Mom adamantly approves of. Mom smiles, looking Stiles in the eye, and they both giggle. 

 _Tomorrow’s gonna be great_ , Stiles thinks as he digs into his mashed potatoes with a grin playing on his lips. 

 

  
**x x x**  

They’re already an hour and a half out of town, and mom just finished her entire _Heart_ album. She’s been singing along to every song, skipping one or two and replaying some more than just a lot of times, when she points out that he should play songs he likes. 

He just shakes his head, smiling, “No, how about on the way back? Make it fair? We’re twenty minutes away from the place, anyway.” He smiles and shakes his head slightly, just looking out at the scenery around them. It’s a two lane road, and they’re driving on the side closest to the wall of a cliff sort of thing, the other lane going a lot more to dirt and grass and down a slope to a big pond. There’s some people fishing down there, he sees. 

His mom chuckles, turning up the radio and rolling the windows down more, the breeze whisking through his hair as his mom’s voice battles Ann Wilson on who can sing the most perfect, loudest note to the lyric “alone.” Stiles busts into a fit of giggles when his mom starts swallowing large gulps of air noisily after she finishes. She gives him a light-hearted glare, smacking his shoulder softly. 

“You, know, I’m really glad we’re hanging out,” she says, eyes steady on the road. 

“We always hang out,” he replies, eyes steady on the water that he smells from up here. It’s salty and sweet and wistful, in a way. 

“No, we don’t,” She counters, “We hang out in the kitchen, while I’m cooking you and your Dad something that won’t kill us, but will eventually, and when I’m off work, you’re always with your friends.” 

“Mom, you work at home as a writer for kids books. I don’t think you’re ever really _at_ work.” Stiles turns his head to his mom, grinning. 

His mom huffs. “Hey, that stuff is heavy business. You have to play with your words. Do I offend the child? Do I offend the parent? Do I offend the publisher? Do I offend myself? Do I offend the pride and honor of my family? That’s _heavy stuff,_ man.” She grins slightly. “But.. you know what? I really appreciate you bailing on your friends to spend some time with your health-freak of a mom.” 

Stiles quirks his head to the side. “You didn’t force me to be here, Mom.” 

“No, I know, but I appreciate it.” His mom spares a glance to him, something earnest and happy in her eyes. 

He smiles at her, hoping to convey the same sort of emotions reflected in her pretty brown eyes.  

“I appreciate it,” He echoes back. 

 

  
**x x x**  

The entire backseat is full of fresh fruits and vegetables and all natural and organic herbs and spices, even butter and granola bars and cereals and just.. yeah, there’s a lot. 

His mom makes him choose a song to play immediately when they get in the car.  

He plays “Hey, Jude” by _The Beatles_ because it’s the only CD she has in the car that’s lead singer is not a girl or dressed like one, and the car won’t let him play anything beyond a standard CD. Plus, it’s a classic, so.. 

His mom let’s him drive the way back. 

When it’s over, his mom turns the radio off and starts digging for her phone. She sighs as she pats her pockets and then scurries through her purse. “Must’ve forgot it at home on the charger..” she mutters to herself. 

Stiles digs his phone out his pocket. “Wanted to call Dad?” 

“Mhm,” she says, taking the phone and finding his Dad’s contact name in his “favorites” list. There’s only four people on it; his parents, Scott, and Scott’s mom. “Have to tell him about that crazy old lady that tried to steal the oranges right out of our cart.” She laughs, pulling the phone up to her ear. 

Stiles’ grin splits his face. “Oh, God, that was so funny. And creepy. Can’t forget creepy.” 

“ _John_!” His mom croons, tucking her brown hair behind her ear, starting in a ramble about the lady. 

He’s watching the road around him, taking notice of everything. He sees a dark grey SUV behind them, speeding up. He keeps an eye on the car. 

“And the lady would just _not_ let go! I was legitimately scared that she wasn’t a lady, or old, but some man with bad skin and fashion choices.” Stiles cracks a grin, remembering the way his mom was just gaping at the little old lady as the latter looked on blankly with a bag of oranges in her clutches. 

The SUV has made it up to them, and Stiles has to push fast on the brake as they hurry and cut them off on the two lane road. His mom jolts, a gasp coming out as her front gets shoved back by the seat belt. 

“ _Motherfucker!”_ Stiles yells, honking his horn angrily. He can actually hear the unison of “ _Stiles, language_ ,” by both his mother and father, even through the low volume of the phone. 

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Didn’t mean to let that slip so loudly.” He did, and they know, but it’s let off. 

His mom is almost finished wrapping up the story when he hears her stop mid-rant on old people and their delicate appearance despite their tough grip to ask, “When are we getting home?” She looks to Stiles, questioning. 

He purses his lips, eyes going skyward for a brief second. “Uh.. an hour?” he replies. 

His mom goes back to the phone, hitting her hand on the window from doing it so fast. He looks over at her habitually when she curses and she says, “We’ll be there in an hour.” 

And suddenly the SUV in front of them swerves harshly to the left, last second, and a much closer, much smaller car is in front of them before he, too, can swerve around it. There’s people farther from it, the hood pushed up, and they must have been broken down. 

At least he thinks they were before he was instantly flipping over the car, twisting and turning and bashing and scraping and cracking across the dry pavement of the road. There’s terrible noises, metal crunching and glass shattering and skids that aren’t right. Stiles doesn’t feel his heart beating for a few insanely long seconds, just continuing to flip as his mom is screaming, his eyes closed. 

And then they’ve stopped spinning. 

They’re upside down, he can tell by the way the mountains are on top of the trees. And the blood rushing to his head, pressure of the seatbelt holding him up to the seats. 

His mom stops screaming and is making these uneven gasping sounds, neck tilted uncomfortably. She’s bleeding with scratches all over, but looks relatively good. He doesn’t know what he looks like, but his mom isn’t screaming again, so it must not be that bad, either. 

They’re still gasping, shock and scared from the sudden flips and skids. 

“ _Oh, my god_ ,” Stiles says, witless and still breathing hard. 

“Stiles, are you okay?” his Mom asks, worry and fear and a slight twinge of relief to know her son isn’t all dead lacing through her usually calm and upbeat voice. 

Stiles looks over to her, catching her eye for a brief second, catching her facial expresion, about to reply with an affirmative and a repeat of her question, but is stopped as his eyes grow wide and looks behind her. 

“Mom,” he gets out, barely above a whisper as his mom furrows her eyebrows. She notices he’s not looking at her, but out the shattered window to her right. She turns her head.

He hears a loud, shrill call of his name ― “ ** _STILES_**!” ― just before the white truck speeding down the road explodes against his mom’s side of the car.  

They’re careening back again, spinning and bashing and scraping and cracking against the road again, this time less airborne and more low ground damage, still upside down. 

And, _God_ , the sounds and the pain and **_Mo_ _m_**. 

He’s getting out of the car, too heavy grocery bags now blocking his view of his Mom that he can’t move with his injured right arm ― it’s probably broken ― and he has to crawl out of the window of his side, on his back. He’s gritting his teeth, the glasses shredding into his back as he desperately tries to get his right leg out. It feels caved under, and most likely is, but it’s hurting so, _so_ bad. 

His teeth are clenched, so the scream that’s ripping through him as the metal below his wheel rips through his leg is the only sound coming from around him, besides the steam of the flipped over car he’s under. He doesn’t hear anyone. 

He doesn’t hear his mom. 

Stiles manages to crawl out, spitting a bit of blood as he turns on his stomach and crawls with his elbows as he makes his way out. He can’t bend his right leg, and his heel won’t let him turn it so it’s twisted all wrong that he can’t even lean against it, the sharp and hot pain from the kneecap down feeling like he’s being stabbed repeatedly with it. His ribs feel weird, and eh can’t feel his right wrist that well. 

He somehow manages to make it around the car, over to his mom’s side. There are various pieces of fruit and foods littered around next to the car with car parts and broken glass.

He’s saying his mom’s name in a steady tantrum as he hops to the door, stumbling over and over. He calls his mom name when he touches the front, right wheel that’s in the air.

“Mom!” He shouts again, tripping over something and falling in the metal surrounding that wheel, too light headed and focused on his mom to recall what the part’s called, and when he opens his eyes, holding on to his now throbbing and profusely bleeding head, he sees his mom. 

And she’s dead. 

He just stares. 

And stares.

And stares some more.

With a slack jaw ―  _disbelieving_  ― and wide eyes ― _terrified_  ― and his hand fallen limp to his front ―  _numb_  ― and just staring at his mom ―  _lost_. 

And then he can’t even say her name, backing up slowly, not bearing the site of his bloody mom that’s just _gone_ now. 

For the first time that he remembers in his life, Stiles can’t say a single damn thing.


	2. Chapter Two

Lacrosse is a sport that’s supposed to help vent out anger and aggression of angst-ridden high school students who also have too much time or too much pride ― mostly both. 

Scott and him are always benched. They’ve never played on the field during any big games ― which is a _complete_ and _total_ lie, because Stiles single handedly won the finals last year thanks to Greenberg accidentally passing to him while everyone else was off field sick. He relished in the one week high ecstasy of popularity before Jackson _fucking_ Whittemore bought himself a _new, silver Porsche_. But at least now people know his name and actually give him gangsta “one up” head bops down the halls. Or whatever they’re called. 

Lately, though, he’s been really sick and tired of Lacrosse. The sport to help any pent up feelings he has or any jittery spasms he gets from not enough activity, as effect from his ADHD, has helped none of that. In fact, it makes it worse. 

One, it’s a sport. Stiles is bad at sports. And movement. He’s not really tactile or graceful or precise on certain things that involve the motions of his own body. Though baseball was pretty fun when he was younger.. 

Second, it’s a “release,” of some sorts. Stiles doesn’t need releases. It’s been two weeks since his last panic attack, a year since since his mom’s death, and he’s doing pretty well controlling everything by himself. 

Third, he doesn’t even play. He sits on a bench bouncing his leg fast and bored out of his mind as Scott rambles on about Allison, who just said “yes” to one of Scott’s many and very stubborn requests for a date. Honestly, he’s happy for the guy, he’s had a crush on the girl since the beginning of freshman year and on this last month of Junior year, h finally got a positive answer to his misgivings. But she had said the faithful answer a _week_ ago and Scott’s mom’s birthday is in a few days, so why isn’t Scott talking about that? 

If Stiles ever admitted to himself, the real reason he’s so tired of Lacrosse is the new student-teacher Coach Finstock is praising every time he yells a degrading comment to a player. 

Gale Colward was a nice guy for someone closely named to vegetables ― _at first_. He was still taking courses at a local college for his physical training degree in whatever he was into perusing-stuff. And he was twenty-one. He looked like he had a soft spot for Stiles, in the beginning. All the touches and smiles and when he stared at him, he lost focused between Stiles’ lips and eyes.  

And at first, Stiles was all up for that. 

He even played along a bit, pretending to not notice the attention, because he really hadn’t at the start. He would innocently touch Gale’s shoulder, congratulating him on a good practice when he yelled a profusely degrading comment to Jackson or one of Jackson’s friends that wasn’t Danny. And when they practiced after school, the sun baring down hard in the last months before summer, he’d purposely strip his jersey, knowing full well all he was doing was playing goalie. And the way Gale’s eyes would trace over his torso, even _Scott_ noticed it.  

Of course, just when Stiles was going to tell him he knew about the guys feelings and stuff, Scott went into this huge speech on the pros and cons of dating the manager of a sports team your on, on the pros and cons of dating in a same sex relationship, on the pros and cons of protection, and just when he was about to crack about how he probably didn’t like Gale enough for anything of that, Gale came up and trailed his long fingers down Stiles’ still shirtless spine, winking and smiling at him on how determined he was at practice that day. And that’s when Stiles realized he may or may not really like the guy back, _for real_. 

Stiles always thought Scott couldn’t get any more annoying than when he told a story about Allison for an _eleventh time_ , but he was proven wrong when Scott and him were walking to practice one Friday after school, and Scott suddenly busted out a tangent on how “Kale Colewart” would ever get in relationship with him because Stiles is a catcher and that has to mean he’ll take Gale’s last name, who is a pitcher ― which is just _offensive_ , Scott, really ― and then he’ll give birth to vegetable children, and Stiles snapped because that is just _too funny_ and accidentally let the nickname slip through his lips. 

And, of course, Gale had heard the entire thing when he came over to walk beside Stiles.  

And, of course, Gale has been a complete and total dick about it all to him for the past couple weeks at practice. 

School’s almost out, he indulged to himself. He won’t have to see Gale during summer practice, that being the time Gale usually leaves to go to visit family in Canada, or something like that. 

To know so little about a guy Stiles was actually starting to kinda like just goes to show how distracted Stiles was because of Gale’s hair. 

And, seriously, the dude _did_ have nice hair. All blonde, and curly, and sandy, and it matched his strong featured face perfectly because it was _peachy_ and sharp and his hair was so soft and rounded and fluffy.  

But the guy had this weird connection with vegetables, so..  

“Stilinski! Your ass is gonna get saggy from all the bench warming you’ve been doing! Doubt you’d make a good enough boyfriend with a saggy ass!” Gale called out from across the field, everyone hearing it. He’s been making snide remarks about Stiles and anything that would qualify to him as a “good boyfriend.” No one steps in because Stiles doesn’t want anyone else to get the blunt of the Gale’s words. The last time someone did, it was Danny, and you _don’t_ say anything about Danny if Stiles is right there. Or Jackson, but Jackson was off the field making out with Lydia and didn’t hear of it. 

Stiles remembers the day after the first season’s game, when he was about to drop his towel in the shower, barely catching it from sliding all the way down his hips after shoving around with Scott about a joke when he noticed Gale around the corner, staring very determinedly at Stiles’ ass. Very, very determinedly. And so was the tent in his pants then, and Stiles’ ass is the exact same it’s been since.. ever. 

So... fuck him. In the bad sense. 

“Sorry ‘bout that Kale Colewart!” He called back, the name rolling off his tongue for the first time since Gale heard it all those weeks ago, and earning more laughs for his words than Gale. Even Jackson was chuckling. That’s how badly he hated Gale. He laughed _with_ _Stiles_. 

For some reason, probably because it was the last day before summer vacation with the team, and it’s so early in the morning because it’s first period, but Gale looked extremely angry. And the closer he stormed to Stiles’ slumped figure, the redder his face appeared.  

Stiles internally screamed for Scott to hurry back from the washroom because _holy shit_ , Gale looking fucking _pissed._  

 _“What did you say, Stilinski?”_ His voice drawled, a low octave and really, really fucking sharp. Stiles wasn’t that fazed, really. Was just taken back by the sudden change. It was so weird. 

“I said, ‘Sorry about that _Kale Colewart_.’” He said simply, not showing any sign of worry or fear or tension. Okay, maybe a little bit of tension. 

“Kale? Really? Are you a five year old?”  

“I don’t know, depends on if you get worked up with _all_ the five year old name calling you get. I mean, are you seriously lesser than that?” Stiles replies back, standing up so he’s not too far down from Gale. Stiles is shorter than him, by a few inches, but he’s making eye contact with him, at least. 

“Stilinski,” Gale starts, stepping closer to Stiles and getting all in his face. Stiles doesn’t like it, it feels too weird and awkward and just _not right_. He’s on edge already, but.. “Do you even know what I can do to someone in your position?” he asks, and Stiles is now honestly curious. 

“No, I don’t,” he says seriously, but with a tinge of mockery in his voice. He doesn’t want to seem _dumb_. 

“I can kick you off the team. I can tell Coach that you’re not even _trying_ to participate. I can tell him that your behavior is acting up, that you need to focus more, that you need to see a _counselor_ for your _issues_ that still aren’t resolved this past year.” Gale spits in his face on any  of the longer _t_ words, and it’s disgusting for someone with such a nice face. 

“I don’t have any issues.” He says breezily. He feels constricted between the metal bench behind his knees and Gale’s chest. It’s conflicting and unpleasant. 

“ _Oh_ , you do,” Gale’s face is suddenly not nice, with him smirking all immorally like that. It’s not scary, it’s vulgar. Gale’s making Stiles feel sick to his stomach just looking at that expression. Like he’s better than Stiles. Like he knows more than he’s ever let on. And it’s probably true. The latter. Not the former, because Stiles is _so much_ better than Gale, esteem issues aside. 

“You don’t even know me,” he replies back. 

“I know what happened last year, and I know everything before that. I’ve been with you after it, too.” Stiles doesn’t like Gale at all. Those fleeting moments of something that he thought could be more, they’re gone. It’s all gone. 

“And from everything I’ve gathered, I know everything you hate. I know everything you love,” Gale continues, then hushing his town down for the second part, “and I know that you haven’t told your father about how you like guys, despite all these other kids knowing it. And I know that you’re afraid of what he’d think of you.” 

Stiles doesn’t say anything. Because that’s not true, but then it kind of is. Yeah, he hasn’t told Dad that he’s more interested in guys nowadays, but he still likes girls ( _Lydia_ , of course.) But he doesn’t think it’s because he’s afraid of what his Dad will think of him. His Dad will always love him, will always be there for him, will always accept anything Stiles is or will be, and Stiles will always do the same for him. He hasn’t told him about his recent sexuality because his Dad is busy with worrying about work and other equally stressing things that shouldn’t involve his son being a bisexual teenager who doesn’t have anyone besides him to talk to for advice in those things. (Danny never seems to want to talk to him for too long when it’s brought up, suddenly going flushed and hurrying away) 

If he does say anything, he’s going to verbalize something that will send him to the principle’s office, and it’s not worth it. It’s the last day of school. It’s the last time he’ll probably see Gale for a long time. And when he does see him again, it will either be because he’s working somewhere in town, or driving around to go to some more classes, which will never last long.  

Oh, and hey, Scott’s back from the washroom, walking over here. 

Gale’s expression flashes with something Stiles doesn’t recognize ― it looks like pity, looks like anger, looks like sadness, looks like _disappointment_  ― and then he says it. 

“ _What would your mother think?_ ”  

And Stiles’ fist is colliding with Gale’s eye before he even realizes it. Gale goes down fast, easy, and Stiles is trying to climb over him to start bashing his face again because _no one is supposed to bring up his mom ever, ever_ around him, and they’re never supposed to say something like _that_ about her. Something about what she would _think_ of him on something he wouldn’t even tell his _father_. Everyone knows that. _Everyone_. 

Scott is pulling him back, Danny right beside him, and a few other kids are trying to pull _Kale_ from underneath him, who is trying to push him off, as well. 

Coach Finstock is running to them from the corner of his eye. 

  
**x x x**  

Stiles misses the last day of school. He spent it in the principle’s office waiting for his Dad to come get him. His Dad was at home sleeping, having just gotten off work that same morning. He’s been taking the night shifts recently, sleeping while Stiles is in school and until dinner. Sometimes he takes both, working far beyond his usual shift. 

But it’s been a few days since the last day of school, currently 9:03AM, and his Dad isn’t at work because he’s sitting next to Stiles behind a wooden desk in one of those private, small court rooms. 

Seven people are here: one judge, two attorneys, one student-teacher, one student, and two cops. Though one of them is by the door overlooking everyone lazily, and the other is the sheriff who knows all these people _by name_. 

And it’s embarrassing. Not for Stiles, because he honestly doesn’t regret the black eye sporting Kale Colewart’s face as he averts his gaze from him over his glass of water. It’s embarrassing for his Dad, who is just slumped in his chair with a deep frown on his face. The attorney to Stiles’ left cost Dad a lot of money, but Stiles knows that’s not why his Dad’s frowning. But Stiles can feel a frown coming to his face now because the attorney to Kale’s right is _Jackson’s Dad_. Just.. _damn,_ Jackson’s going to know exactly what Stiles is going to be charged for punching a student-teacher in the face.  

“Okay, Mr. Stilinski,” the guy starts. He looks like an older, plumper version of his principle at school. Maybe they’re related? Then again, Stiles doesn’t even know the name of his principle, so.. 

Dad nudges him in the ribs, silently telling him to get up. He does so and doesn’t take his blank eyes away from Kale Colwart’s black eye. 

“You’re nine months shy of eighteen. That means the Assault Two charge you’ve pled guilty to carries a maximum of one year in juvie. With these priors, you’re up to three.” The judge says, not looking up from his paper work, a worn down tone to his voice. 

Stiles _feels_ his Dad looking away from him in disappointment. He can _feel_ it. 

Suddenly, the judge gazes up from his work, having not looked away from it since he entered the room, and his dark blue eyes look up to lock on to Stiles’ light brown. “Losing a parent isn’t easy,” he states matter-of-fact, and then raising his voice higher after, “which is why I’m sentencing you to three months house arrest.” 

Stiles eyes widen, and his jaw twitches because he’s about to blurt out, “what, why?” when the judge cuts him off simply. 

“Mr. Stilinski, I just cut you a break,” his eyes look pitying. Stiles wonders if it’s because he knows his Dad is the sheriff, and that it must suck to have your only kid be a felon at a young age. “Don’t test me.” 

Stiles hears the sigh from his father and “ _tsk_ ” from Kale Colewart, and so he doesn’t make a single sound. 

  
**x x x**  

There’s a ankle bracelet being strapped just a inch from the hem of his sock as he sits on his kitchen counter and the dark skinned woman in a fancy suit presses on something, a green light shining bright against the black plastic. 

“Alright,” she starts, her tone dreary and tired like the Judge’s. “You’re all set to go nowhere.” 

Stiles stares down at the bracelet. It’s not heavy, really, but it weighs something that’s light but bothering. And he’s never had anything really around his ankle before, which just makes it more annoying. 

“Now, green means you’re good, you’re in the safe zone,” the woman says. Stiles’ fingers touch the black plastic, twisting it around and lifting it up as far as it can his skinny calf. Not much, but at least two inches. “which covers a 100-foot radius from this guy,” she pats her nails on a black box with “Dual Trank” on it, the brand in all caps, _SENTINEL._ Her voice is that one Dad uses when he’s explaining something to a simple crook, giving nothing but “I mean business”-vibes.“You unplug it, the police come immediately.” 

Stiles pulls down his slacks, still dressed in what he wore to the court room. “He’s like a modem. He gets a constant GPS signal from Mr. Bracelet that goes through your phone line to the monitoring systems downtown. So they know where you are, where you’ve been, and what you’re thinking, 25/7.” 

“What if I accidentally go beyond.. ?” Stiles doesn’t get to finish, because his Dad interrupts him. His _Dad_. 

“Red light flashes. You got ten seconds to get your butt back to green, or else.” His Dad’s arms are crossed, the wrinkles around his eyes visible. 

“Or else what? The execution squad shows up?” Stiles says, stepping down from the counter and walking over to more open space. He starts shaking around his leg, testing to see how bouncy the strap is. Not much, but awkward. 

“And they don’t bring blindfolds,” the lady says helpfully. “It’s tamper-proof and waterproof. So don’t try to stick your foot in a bucket of water and hop across the line. It won’t work and you’ll just look stupid.” Stiles finishes shaking his leg out, sitting in the actual seat beside the counter, across from his dad, the woman, and the police officer that came with that wasn’t from the courtroom. He feels like he wants to laugh about the bucket-thing, but he only manages a bit of a smile, fiddling with his thumbs. 

“Now, here’s the instructions,” she hands his dad a folder with something stapled to the front, “here’s my card,” she hands him a small rectangle of a bare card.  

“Thank you,” his dad mutters, as a habit and less of actual thanks. 

The woman looks up at him and says, in a more gentle tone than with Stiles, “Are you all set up to pay the incarceration fee, Sheriff Stilinski?” 

His eyes snap to his father, not expecting there to be an actual fee for this kind of thing. His dad turns his head to him, looking him in the eye, saying, “No.” 

“Twelve dollars. Every day. I accept all major credit cards.” The woman says, unfazed. 

His Dad looks to the woman, then looks to Stiles again. “Great,” he says under his breath. Stiles has to look down and away from him. He didn’t want his dad to _pay_ for him being a fuck up. 

“My wallet’s right over there,” his Dad says, still not looking away from him, walking away to where his keys are at the dining table. The woman follows after him, giving a long look at Stiles, too, trying to give him the “this is what the real world’s like”-look, but he makes sure to avert his eyes again. 

It’s just him and the cop now, who is walking over in front of Stiles from his place by the back door.

“Officer,” Stiles says in recognition, trying to use his manners like his Dad. He isn’t really acknowledging the cop so much as he’s acknowledging the fact he’s towering over his slumped position. Stiles looks up for a second when something glints above him, his eyes going up to see that it was the guys tag. He hears the woman say, “I’m sorry, Sheriff,” and his Dad say, “No, it’s okay,” when he reads “Coleward” on the guys name tag. 

Coleward. 

 _Colewart._  

“Coleward?” he blurts, that name being the same as Gale’s -- _Kale’s_. 

“Your student-teacher,” the guy starts, his sharp edged face and short, curly hair making Stiles’ eyes widen from the similarity. “he’s my brother.” 

Stiles’ lips part, but not full blown gaping, which is an accomplishment on it’s own. 

Officer Coleward smiles charmingly.  

“Oh, one more thing. Listen up.” The woman says from his right with his father, shaking his attention from Coleward. “House arrest may sound like a breeze, but I’ve seen many  a folk get a bit loopy after too long. Some after just a day or two. So find some constructive things to keep yourself busy.” Her face looks like she’s not going to put up with anything but a “yes,” and from the eyebrows his Dad’s giving him form behind her, the same goes for him. 

Stiles raises his own brows, mouth going down with pursed lips, nodding his head. 

  
**x x x**  

“BOOM! Nice shot!” Stiles says loudly, rocking at bit in his XP Gaming Chair he bought from Target not that long ago. He was playing Halo 4 with Scott and a few other guys from Lacrosse. It’s been a week since he got back from court, and a week since he’s had the bracelet strapped to his ankle. 

“Okay, Scott, get to my left. They’re behind the wall to our right,” Stiles says loudly, getting into the game. 

“No, dude, it’s suicide!” Scott whines, running to Stiles’ right in the game instead. Stiles groans loudly. 

“No, man, it’s okay! Let me jump them and you get Cobra!” 

“No!” 

“Just get your position and hold it!”

“Stiles, no!”

Stiles whines this time. “Just get your position and hold it, Scott! Go down to the bottom entrance between the thingy’s!”

Stiles sees Scott’s man scurry to the left, crouching. “Okay, I’m over here.”

“Okay, here it comes, here it comes,” Stiles licks his lips, adjusting in his seat again. 

Scott starts firing before Stiles gets there, but he goes with it anyways. In no time, they beat the other guys. 

“Yeah!” he hears Scott say loudly, probably fist pumping. Stiles is. 

“Yes!” He says, grinning. Scott starts saying something, but then Stiles sees a bit of movement to the right of his screen. “Wait, buddy, one’s still alive!” 

“Shit, Stiles,” Scott says, his man running up next to Stiles’. 

“Okay, let’s just take cover behind this building. There’s a secret entrance to the inside and then we can make our way behind some boulders or something,” Stiles is saying, his man running ahead of Scott’s. 

Suddenly, his screen freezes. 

“What?” he says aloud, pushing buttons on his controller. “No, no, no, no..” he mutters, confused. 

His screen goes to “pause” then “home.” Stiles starts pressing various buttons, and tries to connect to XBOX Live again, but it says Access Denied. Stiles’ brows scrunch up. 

“You gotta be kidding me..” he says, shaking the controller around again. “Hello?” he says into the mic. 

No one answers. 

  
**x x x**  

Stiles heads downstairs to the kitchen, swinging the refrigerator open. He’s looks around the inside, thinking on whether he should make dinner now or just wait until his Dad gets home. But then his Dad is working the late shift tonight, so...

He grabs the peanut butter, a spoon, the Hershey’s chocolate syrup, and half gallon of milk, heading to the living room. He flips the heat and air to something well beyond cold and tucks in on the couch, shaking up the milk and chocolate, creating chocolate milk. He’s used almost all the syrup, but still has enough to make little spoonfuls of peanut butter drizzled with the chocolatey goo on the spoon in his mouth. He remembers his mom doing this when he was younger, and she and Dad had a bit of an argument on safety or something. They made up just hours later, cuddling together with him in between. It was a nice memory. 

He’s in the middle of watching _Drake & Josh_, Drake talking with Josh at the movie theatre about something trivial, when his stomach makes this odd grumble. 

He pauses his movements with the spoonful by his mouth, thinking. 

  
**x x x**  

Stiles steps out from the bathroom, holding his stomach uncomfortably. He forgot about that kind of effect he and his mom had so long ago. 

His mom. 

Stiles’ eyes flicker to the door down the hall. 

He walks across the wood floors, passing the stairs entrance, his and his dad’s room, and the guest room in the process.  

His fingers hesitate before twisting the doorknob, pushing lightly on it after. 

It looks exactly the same. 

The room, he means. 

It’s glowing orange from the setting sun outside, all the windows to the room with it’s blinds half-lidded. The warm colors set across the walls and furnishings making it look comfortable to just step inside and twirl around in it. All the little and big trinkets set around, stacked around, piled around. The splashes of bright and neon colors coming from little things around the room, mostly just childish things and young hand painted pictures with his initials in the corner framed around the room. 

It’s his mom’s study, the room where she’s spent most of her time in. Just sitting around and sometimes dancing in it. She would hang out with him in here, letting him just color or paint or do homework or read or just nap in here while she wrote simple words and drew colorful things for little kids. She’ll always have a soft smile on her face as she did it all. She was always happy in this room. 

Stiles’ mind flickers with an image of her behind the desk, looking up at him, basked in the orange light of the room, wearing the battered jeans and baggy cashmere sweater that pools around her wrists as she smiles up at him from a pretty picture of a butterfly. 

When she opens her mouth to say his name in that soft, pretty voice like she always did when he opened the door without knocking, it doesn’t come out. There’s a terrible screech of tires and a shrill scream of “ ** _STILES_**!” and suddenly Stiles is slamming the door in his own face. 

He’s standing stock still outside the study, bare feet heavy on the outskirts. He hasn’t looked inside there in a year. 

He takes a deep breath, steps back, and realizes that he couldn’t even take a step inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta, sorry. ): I need to get one..  
> Oh, but look, beginning of some story-action! Only chapter two of eighteen, but still. Got the basis covered. Next chapter will be somewhat slow, as it's to show what Stiles has been doing for the next two weeks.


	3. Chapter Three

His dad took his laptop away. 

For Stiles, that’s where he has to draw the line. It’s been a few weeks of doing this house arrest thing, and it only seems to get worse the longer he stays inside the house. There’s no Xbox, daytime television sucks, the movies in the house have been watched so much that even he is sighing with boredom when watching _Back to the Future II,_ and he can’t find his PSP. All he had left _was_ the internet. He’d Skype with Scott, some cousins from another state that don’t know about his little electronic accessory, even Danny. He’d read scientific articles, go on _Listverse_ and read and create his own lists, edit and read Wikipedia articles, watch some series or movies on Netflix, stumble around on Facebook for a bit, check his emails, shop for some clothes online, masturbate to porn -- the possibilities were endless. The internet was endless. 

And now he didn’t have it.

Stiles was staring blankly at his phone, the television in front of him was on some girl in a bikini running across a beach, and his phone was _slow_. 

Wifi connections sucked in his neighborhood. Head anywhere else outside of his street, and you’d get full bars and clear landlines. And that sucked. Especially when he’s been texting Scott since this morning and Scott’s just been replying with one-word replies, or short acronyms like, “idk,” “lmao,” “lol,” and at one point, “AWGTHTGTTA.” Which is just... _what_? He was talking about how disgusting orange juice with pulp was and he sent that after twenty minutes. (note: it means _Are We Going To Have To Go Through This Again?)_  

Scott hasn’t replied back in thirty minutes, and Stiles thinks he’s doing something with Allison now and forgot about him. He’s been trying to google random little thoughts that have come into his head, but the internet connection times out before it even uploads a hint of an answer or page link. Stiles is _so bored_. 

“I’ve never seen two guys do it before,” a voice rings out suddenly, and Stiles snaps his up to the t.v. The girl previously running across the beach has a beach towel around her,  hip cocked to the side a lecherous smirk on her glossy lips. The camera cuts to two guys staring at her gaping. The one to the right, a lean and tan kid with messy black hair, nudges the other guy to his right. The other guy, who’s tall and muscly and tan with long, straight hair down his back, is staring at the woman’s hips before turning his head to his friend or something. 

They stare at each other for a moment, but the girl seems to lose patience and scoffs. She’s about to walk away before the shorter kid yelps, “We can do it!” And the taller guy just gapes at the kid now. 

“Dude, I’ve never done it with a guy. I’m not like that,” he whispers to the kid, pressing up to his side. Stiles shifts awkwardly. He doesn’t remember putting the t.v. on anything like _this_. 

“Me, either,” the kid says, fidgeting, “but let’s... let’s just try it out and see if she wants to try anything with us.”  

The guy hesitates, but nods slowly. The girl looks ecstatic. 

“Okay!” She says happily, clasping her hands together with a clap. “How about you guys lay down under that umbrella and.. get to it.” She giggles. 

Stiles has put down his phone and now has the remote in his hand, turning up the television. 

The two guys lay down, positioning themselves side by side. They’re staring at each other with awkward tension, but suddenly the taller guy’s eyes look down at the boy’s bare chest, and the boy is staring at the man’s lips. Stiles clears his throat. 

The kid starts to lean in, and the other follows suit. They’re kissing softly, hands starting to graze each other’s flesh, and when the long haired guy’s hand suddenly grazes the front of the boy’s swim trunks, and the boy let’s a high pitched moan, and the guy let’s out a deep groan, Stiles’ dad opens his bedroom door, shuffling through mail. 

Stiles scrambles to change the channel, the screen paused on the picture of these two on top of each other with open mouths and tongues, before it’s on the news with a picture of a middle aged man smiling happily with “ _MISSING_ ” written on top of the picture. The woman delivering the news has a blank and semi-serious face on as she reads the telegram behind the camera. 

His Dad stares at him. Stiles fidgets. 

“Trash TV?” His dad sighs. 

“No, news,” he stays too fast. He hopes to God his dad heard the boy’s high moan being a woman. It _was_ pretty high, so.. 

“ _... Fifteen miles west of Springdale have released the first photo of 33-year-old Patrick Williams, who may be a victim of a kidnapping. Family members reported Williams missing yesterday evening, after repeated calls to her cellphone went unanswered for three days._ ” The woman on the t.v. says as Stiles’ Dad pulls the blinds to his room open, making Stiles wince at the brightness. He hasn’t opened those in awhile.  

His Dad’s looking around the room with disdain, picking up and piling around dirty clothes or fallen over objects. His room is pretty trashed, but he’s been too lazy to actually start cleaning it. It’s not like anyone is coming to visit him or anything. It’s summer vacation and he’s locked inside a house. 

With _nothing_ to do.  

“You cancelled my XBOX,” he states freely. Just staring as his Dad roams around the room, trying to fix the massive clutter he’s made his den. 

“iTunes, too, but you probably didn’t know that because the no laptop-thing,” his Dad says casually, not affected at all. He stops his steps to putting a pile of t-shirts in an already full laundry basket, but then dumping it in anyways. “You know what else I’m canceling? Maid service.” He’s picked up the mail again, dumping a few magazines Stiles had a subscription for by his desk.

“Look, Stiles,” dad sighs, finished with the mail and rubbing his forehead tiredly, “I’m sorry you’re a felon, but this is not a vacation.” Stiles is looking at the news again, the picture of the man looking so happy and free with a fishing cap on his head. “I have to stay late at the department today, stuff acting up with some drunk teenagers in the woods again, like every summer. When I get back, I want you to have this room clean and the kitchen, too. Finish all the laundry, dust around the house, do some pasta art or something, just get up and do something.” 

Stiles sighs, putting his chin in his palm as he leans against his computer desk and continues watching the t.v. “I’ll do that, just let me check my schedule.” 

The news woman keeps talking. “ _If you have any information on the whereabouts of Patrick Williams, a special hotline number has been set up at 1-800 --_ ” His dad unplugs the television from the outlet behind it, staring blankly at Stiles. 

Stiles groans. “Y’know, Dad, aren’t you going a little overboard? Being a little too overdramatic? You don’t think I’m just gonna plug it right back in?” 

His Dad frowns. “Dramatic?” he echoes, raising his eyebrows and nodding his head. He walks away from Stiles, going over to his desk and grabbing a pair of scissors from the drawers. 

“What?” Stiles says, sitting straight up. “What are you going to do now?” His Dad walks back to where he was, bending down and picking the cord up. “Are you _crazy_?” 

“Da--” His Dad clips the cord, looking at Stiles smugly as the other half of it thumps to the ground. “That’s dramatic,” his Dad says, “now clean up your room,” and walking out without closing the door. 

 **x x x**   

“Scott, you have no idea how this thing itches. Plus, my father transformed. He’s a dictator now, like the warden from _Shawshank_. And she took my Xbox. And my laptop is gone, too, right? And I _can’t go anywhere_.” Stiles says as he starts drawing a stickman on the bracelet with a silver sharpie. It’s not coming out too bad. He finishes and picks the phone from the cradling he was doing with it by his shoulder and tilted head. 

He sighs sadly, full of melancholy. “I’m losing it. I’m _losing_ my mind. Just give me any information, anything at all. You know how much I love information. I love it like I love peanut butter. And that’s a hella lot. And I haven’t had any information to feed my emancipating brain because there’s no internet and the news is full of tragedy. What’s going on out there? How’s the outside world in Beacon Hills?” 

“I’m not in Beacon Hills, actually,” Scott says, and Stiles’ jaw drops. 

“ _What?_ ” He says, scandalized. 

“I know!” Scott croons happily, not paying mind to Stiles’ empty world in his house. “Allison and her family are going on some type of hunting trip in Canada. Dude, I’m in _Canada_. With _Allison_. She had to practically beg them to let me come, saying that she couldn’t maintain any sanity if all they were going to do was lock her up in a cabin in the cold while they went off hunting wild animals for money. She is _so hot_ when she’s angry.  It’s _so sexy_ , man.” 

“Scott, man, I’ve been locked inside _my house_ for _weeks_ , in the _hot, hot_ weather, and you’re literally in the middle of a _snowstorm_ or something with your cute _girlfriend_ for an entire week _by yourself_ and you happily went with her because you’d feel _bad_ to leave her by herself, but I’ve been stuck _at home_ by _myself_ and you haven’t even came to visit once since _ever_.” Usually Stiles wouldn’t vent all his issues out on anyone, let alone Scott who’s so happy right now, but being on house arrest changes a person. At least he likes to think it does, because he really hopes it’s not all his fault for his change in behavior. And.. oh god, he feel so bad right now. 

Scott hasn’t said anything, and Stiles is fidgeting awkwardly. “Scott.. ?” He asks hesitantly. 

A few long seconds after, he hears Scott giggling, but it’s muffled. “Scott?” he says louder this time, worried that he broke his friend. 

“Sorry, man,” he hears Scott say, even hearing his dopey grinning, “I didn’t hear anything you said. Allison came back from setting a fire, and she looked really pretty with the fire glow, so I just had to kiss her. What were you saying?” 

Stiles is dumbfounded. 

He doesn’t even get a single word out before Scott’s shuffling and frantically getting out, “Oh, shit, man, I have to call you some other time, Allison.. she’s...” and the phone goes dead. 

Stiles sits with the phone still pressed to his ear for a moment longer. 

He throws the phone to his bedroom wall, tipping over his lamp. He doesn’t even try and pick it up. 

 **x x x**  

Stiles has done all the chores. _All_ of them. He’s done all the laundry, even separating the colors and whites and all his and his Dad’s socks or work clothes. He’s made a million separate loads, and it’s probably and teenage kid’s nightmare, but he found genuine pleasure in doing something tactile. Even when he was folding the socks. 

He’s cleaned the kitchen. All the pans and plates and silverware. He’ even cleaned the fine china his Dad only brings out during Thanksgiving. 

He’s vacuumed, dusted, swept, and polished _everything_. The house looks completely clean and sparkly and smells like Febreeze. It’s beautiful. 

But when he gets to his bedroom, the only thing he’s done is picked all the clothes off and around to clean them, and that’s all he really feels up to doing. He scans around everywhere, seeing nothing really interesting to do. And then he spots the 24 pack of _Twinkies_ in the corner of his room, and a bottle of glue right next to it from his project in Mr. Harrison’s class all those weeks ago. 

He built a Twinkie castle with the boxes scattered around the kitchen and the one in his room. It’s absolutely beautiful and everyone is jealous of it. No one but him has seen it, though, but he knows they would be jealous if they did. Plus, his dad isn’t going to be eating any of them anytime soon. Payback for cutting the cord to his t.v. _Yes_. 

Stiles is currently in the bathroom. 

“Oh, yeah,” He groans. “Ah, _ah, ah_ yeah. There we go. Yeeees,” he continues to groan. 

He grabs the extended shower scrub from behind him and continues to scratch at his monitor. It feels so good to finally get the hard to reach areas, and it feels even between with the slightly sharp bristles of the scrub. _Yes_. 

His dad has been able to come home most nights this week for dinner on time. Though, he’s been making Stiles cook it as a way of “punishment” still. While Stiles would love to feed his dad tofu burgers, he also wouldn’t love it himself. And his dad won’t let him cook anything different for himself than Stiles. 

As they sit at the dining table, eating a dinner of eggplant parmesan with his Dad’s plate overflowing with salad and his with just a small portion of it -- _ha, take that, dad_ \-- his Dad clears his throat and tells him he’s going to have to start working some night shifts because a deputy that usually does it is on leave for medical reasons. 

Stiles continues to just hum along to everything he says. He’d usually be rattling his Dad’s head off by now, like he has been each time his Dad gets home while he had this bracelet and even before then, but he just doesn’t feel like it. He’s used to staying in the house with no one to talk to, and after he realized he’s been muttering to himself, he was getting annoyed at it. Because he was muttering about nothing. Nothing at all. He was just making little noises under his breath. He was _not_ going to go crazy.  

His dad continues to talk, telling him about the mundane things around the office, and then some more exciting things that happened while he was on duty, and Stiles hums. 

Dad’s stopped talking, asking “Don’t you want to talk about anything?” and is looking at him. When Stiles looks up from his plate, he looks... uncomfortable? Perturbed? Surprised? Stiles doesn’t know anymore.  

He remembers standing in the courtroom, _feeling_ his dad look away in disappointment as he stared in the pitying eyes of the judge. 

The bracelet around his ankle doesn’t feel itchy anymore. It feel _so heavy_ when his Dad’s looking at him _._   

“I got nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scott's not a bad friend! Okay, yes, this chapter did show him as that, but he'll make it up later. And the next chapter: LAURA AND DEREK. :D


	4. Chapter Four

Stiles loves those scarce moments since being house-binded where he just naps. 

Yes, okay, he may not be the prettiest sleeper or napper -- mouth hanging open, drooling, sprawled around everywhere, cuddling anything he can in close proximity -- but it’s nice to just pause out of life during the day. It’s _really_ nice, actually, but it comes in unexpected intervals, even if he can sleep practically anywhere. 

Naps are those times when his brain just shuts down. Well, not fully, of course, but his conscious is just like, “fuck dis, I’m out,” and Stiles is all for that. You’d think being bored out of his mind at home for the past few weeks would change any of that, but it doesn’t. it makes it worse, because Stiles’ brain just wants him to do something already. 

And so, as he is currently reclining in his gaming chair, napping away to the world and the emptiness the clean house is, the sounds of doors slamming and metal clanking from a garage door wake him up. 

Stiles jumps in surprise at first, because _metal_ and _clanking_ , but he calms down and starts rubbing the drool dribbling down his face quickly. He knows some if it dried up, so makes sure to scrub extra furiously. He looks down at his shirt and scowls. He’s been wearing his “The Strokes” shirt for the past week, but it’s just drenched in sweat and drool. _Yuck_.  

He changes out of his clothes, listening to muffled voices and stuff dropping around outside on cement and grass. He strips all his clothes, finding a pair of khaki cargo shorts, _Ramones_ shirt, and freshly bleaches socks that are still slightly warm from the dryer. He loves socks, summer weather aside. 

The sounds outside get louder as he goes out from his room, walking out to the hall and peeking out the window. He hears people talking, saying things like, “Watch it,” “Don’t touch that,” “Didn’t I say you _don’t touch anything_ unless we allow you to,” which are all pretty fierce on how they’re delivered. A male and female saying it and all, like they’re growling.  

Stiles can’t see anything because of the tree outside, so he clicks his tongue and heads downstairs, over to the side door closest to the house. There’s a moving van outside, a small one. He sees a few bed frames and sofas out on the lawn, a really pretty young woman fussing to two men trying to take a big grandfather clock out the side door. She’s practically _glowering_ , and still looking like a model. Huh. She probably is. Why would she move to Beacon Hills if she was, though? 

It’s obvious someone’s moving in to the house next door to him. It’s been vacant for the past few months, the little old lady that used to live there having passed from cancer. She used to let Stiles and his mom help with her garden, and his Dad would mow her front lawn for free. She was like a grandma to him, one that he could actually remember. It was a loss, and no one seemed to really want the house. 

Younger kids say it’s because it’s haunted with her ghost, which is _stupid_ , and older people say it’s because the grandkids of the woman want an outrageous price for the home. Though, if anyone had actually visited the woman, they’d know that her backyard connected to the forrest, leading all the way to the Beacon Hills Preserve. It was something that went unsaid, because when she was alive, she barely left her home, and she never really seemed to take notice of that little fact for what it’s worth. 

Whoever’s moving in must be loaded with some doe, Stiles thought as he continued watching the three people arguing. Or, one, but the other two guys were looking really stressed, like they’re about to snap at the woman. 

“How about you try lifting this piece of shit up, m’am?” One of the men barks, stumbling with the grandfather clock. It started to topple over, right on the much smaller woman, when she casually lifted an arm up with a flat palm and stopped it from crushing her. 

_Hot damn_ , she was strong. 

The two guys looked dumbstruck. The woman easily tilted the great clock to standing straight up before a tall, tan, tank-top wearing (ooh, alliteration, Stiles) and dark, styled hair came up from nowhere. He heard a “ _what did you call a piece of shit?_ ” before the two men started flailing like fish out of water, and the beautiful woman says something like “Thanks, lil’ bro.” Stiles felt immense pity for them, the workers. It’s embarrassing enough to flail like a fish -- as he knows from personal experience -- but to have someone that look even intimidating _from the back_ growl at you like that? Ouch. 

Even with the pity, Stiles couldn’t take his eyes away from the man’s back. He opens the side door to his house, peeking his head through the window-donned entrance. The man had _muscles_. He must work out a lot. Like, a lot - lot. Like, _hella_ lot. So hella, that he must do it the sun, shirtless, because his skin looked flawlessly tan. And Stiles is sure that if he hadn’t known he was bisexual already, he would already be doubting himself because that woman is attractive as hell, but this _guy_? _God_. 

The guy suddenly ** _lifts_** _the grandfather clock_ right up and embraces it against him as walks with it inside the house. Stiles still hasn’t seen the guys face, but _holy god_ , _those arms._ And that beautiful woman isn’t his wife or girlfriend. It’s his older sister or something. So.. _free game_. (to look from afar at, because Stiles knows his limitations when he sees them in wifebeaters.) 

The doorbell rings and Stiles automatically turns his head to get it, the side of his head hitting the wood of the door it’s between. He winces and lets a pained groan out, taking his head out and closing the door. He yells an agitated, “Yeah, I’m coming!” rubbing his temple and hurrying to the door as the doorbell continues to be pressed repeatedly. 

“Yeah?” he answers, opening the door. He gets that there’s no one really there, and that instead there’s a paper bag on fire on his porch. He yelps, already stomping and flailing on it and cursing “fuck” over and over again. 

It’s until he’s got all the flames down that he realizes what was inside the bag. 

Shit. 

“It’s dog shit,” he says as he catches his breath from the vigorous stomping. Dog shit on his freshly bleached socks. _Freshly bleaches socks_.

He hears two kids giggling from in the street, and he looks up, seeing two kids on bikes laughing at him. 

“What a retard!” one says, reaching for a high five from the other and getting just that. 

Stiles recognizes those kids. They’re Greenberg’s little brothers. They’re his back neighbors, living on the street right behind his. 

He’s is _pissed_.  

“You little bastards,” he whispers mostly to himself, walking down his porch’s steps. He starts walking and trying to get the crap beneath his feet wiped off in the grass of the yard. 

“Bet you think that’s real funny, huh?” he says, pretending to sound more happy than he feels. 

“What are you gonna do?” the chubbier of the two asks, the other still laughing and wearing a baseball cap. “Kill us, like you killed your teacher?” 

Stiles grits his teeth for a second, coming to terms that his moods are more fanatical, and that’s not all just from his ADHD and medicines. “Not before I shove this shit and my foot back up your asses,” he yells before taking off running to the side of his yard, clear down the driveway. 

The kids are paddling frantically on their bikes down the street, and he’s right on their tail, when he hears what they’re shouting to each other. 

“Dude, you said he couldn’t leave his house!” the chubby one says, shaggy hair flying everywhere in his face. 

Baseball cap shouts, “He can’t!” and Stiles reels back, stomping his feet on the ground to a halt. 

His jaw is dropped and nostrils flaring, looking down at his right leg, and realizes the monitor around his ankle is beeping a bright red and a sickening feeling floods his body as the terrible noise from it, like an old-school alarm clock. 

“Oh, shit.” he says to himself, scurrying back to the house. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit, _shit_ , ** _shit_** _,_ ** _SHIT_** _!_ ” He’s running faster back than when he was running after Greenberg’s brothers. 

“Turn green! Turn _green_!” he’s shouting to the monitor, running right past the moving van that’s close to his driveway. 

“Okay, here we are, back at the home. I’m good. I’m good.” he’s saying to himself, jumping up from the driveway and into his yard, spinning around trying to catch a signal from the base inside. 

“Turn green. Turn green,” he continues to say as the light still flashes red. “Come on! Turn green, I’m in!” He’s shouting angrily, still stumbling and spinning around his yard. 

He thinks in a corner of his head that he must look like a crazy person, crawling all around his yard and screaming about the color green, but he’s too genuinely scared to care right now. 

“Turn green. Come on. Please. Please, turn green,” he says, crawling closer to the house. He’s in the shade of the tree right now as he pauses to watch the light on the bracelet still flash red. He’s panting hard just as the red suddenly stops and calms down to a beautiful green.  

“Yes!” Stiles fist pumps. “Yes! Whoo!” 

He’s catching his breath and calming down the panic in his throat, telling himself that it’s okay, there’s no need for a panic attack, he just needs to calm down and get this shit off his once bright white socks. He’s rubbing the pad of his palm in his eyes when he hears a “Hey, are you okay?” from the house next door with the new neighbors. 

He looks up and sees the two moving men staring at him, one with it’s hand up in a sort of wave, and the beautiful woman is next to them with a box under one of her arms. They’re looking at him like he’s crazy.

He glances around at neighborhood closest to him and realizes that a lot of people are outside, doing mundane things like gardening, mowing, water sprinkles for little kids, washing their car or dogs. Practically all his neighbors are out of their homes.  

And he just stomped on dog shit in front of them, chased after two bratty kids, then ran back shouting curses and the name of a secondary color right in front of them and their new neighbors. Great. 

Stiles lets a hysterical laugh escape him, trying to cover the embarrassment and failing miserably. “No, uh, it’s fine. _I’m_ fine. It just.. it turned. I’m green,” he shouts back to the worker. 

The worker nods confusedly, and the woman has this funny expression on her face. As if she doesn’t know what to think of him but wants to. 

Stiles is about run back inside his house, burn the socks in his backyard, then try and clean the mess up on the porch, when a deputy vehicle comes strolling down the street with it’s lights flashing and alarm slow.  

Stiles gets a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

The car’s pulling into his driveway and he’s just gaping at it. “No, no, no. Sir? Listen. Listen, officer, listen to me,” he starts saying, getting up from the ground with his hands held up in innocence.  

“I wasn’t trying to go anywhere. I wasn’t trying to leave. Ask any of these people.” He’s originally talking to the guy behind the steering wheel, Deputy Boyer, a man that’s been working with his dad since he practically started the job. 

“There’s a bag of shit on my stairs. Two kids just...” his words trail off as he realizes Boyer isn’t alone. The passenger door opens and out steps Officer Colward with a knowing grin on his cocky face. 

Stiles rolls his eyes and sighs exasperatedly. He’s not getting out of this one. Doesn’t mean he won’t try. 

“Honestly, they put a bag of shit on my stairs and they lit it on fire.” 

“-- Get down on the ground,” Colward says, not really listening. 

“-- There’s a bag of _shit_ on my... !” he starts even louder. 

“Get down on the ground!” Colward says again, sounding more authoritative. 

“Get your hands behind your head,” he starts, pressing behind Stiles and lowering him to the ground. 

“Somebody comes and shits on my house and you don’t care?” Stiles says, more dejected than angry now. He thinks about the face his dad will make when he sees him in the police department. And.. oh, god.  

“Face down, face down,” Colward says, actually sounding _gentle_ , as if he _gets_ what Stiles is thinking. 

Stiles gets pissed at that. “This is bullshit,” he says, trying for an angry-thug-felon voice, but ending up just sounding tired.  

He literally hears Colward snicker at that, saying “gimme your hand,” right after. 

Stiles is about to say something, but even he doesn’t know what, and then stops.  

Tall, tan, and tank top wearing man comes out from the house, sans grandfather clock. 

It’s the first time Stiles sees his face, and even though it’s from a slight distance, it’s fucking gorgeous. He’s got an angular jaw, light stubble all around it, a straight nose, thick but sculpted eyebrows, and full lips. Stiles can’t quite see his eye color, but at this point it wouldn’t even matter. 

And then the man’s lips turn up in a slight smirk, looking amused. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Stiles even as he walks down the steps to his new house, and Stiles can see the way his eyes catch the green of the bushes. They’re like a hazel color, more green than anything, though. And Stiles is suddenly a romantic because he can’t help but think that the color green of his eyes is more beautiful than the green from the bracelet, life urgency included. 

Stiles feels his breath hitch when he finally realizes that the gorgeous man is actually _looking at him_.  

And so is everyone else around them. 

Because he’s being arrested on his front lawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, now we're gonna get heavy up on the plot. Dis just going to get better now that we've got most of the basis down. (: Oh, and did you guys know that's it's been officially 19 minutes of the actual movie to this point in the writing? Most of the situations are a bit changed, though. Like the Lacrosse and student teacher thing, which was actually (in the movie)during a classroom scene with an actual teacher. And the Scott and Allison in Canada thing, which is really just Ronald in Hawaii.
> 
> In the next chapter, you guys are gonna see what Stiles' neighbors are doing that he can see from his house! My update on that will either be really fast or semi-slow. Going to Drumline camp tomorrow. );

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell how you feel! Kudos, Comments, and Bookmarks are GREATLY appreciated! <3 Like, seriously.
> 
> I'm not a beggar, but oh hot damn, those things are like canon!Sterek moments to me.


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